


Anastasia

by shuckit



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: BASICALLY i'm writing the entirety of anastasia, F/M, essentially giving dmitry more depth that's it, i'm dimya trash and the hours i spend writing this are here to prove it, their slowburn gives me life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-10-30 15:39:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17831369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuckit/pseuds/shuckit
Summary: The entirety of the Broadway musical Anastasia written in Dmitry's perspective.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a couple PSAs:
> 
> \- i'm absolutely terrible at writing lengthy stuff but a couple people said they'd like to read this so . i'm challenging myself here, don't expect too much :-)
> 
> \- i've been doing a bunch of research to try and make this as historically accurate as possible but google can't help with all of my questions ("what did russian conmen do in 1927" was a big one w/ no help whatsoever) so please fix me if anything doesn't sound right! trying my best
> 
> \- i'm using lines from hartford and broadway (picking n choosing between either) b/c what the hell sometimes i like lines from hartford better than broadway lol
> 
> \- this is just for fun / because some people thought it would be good please don't judge me thanks byebye

**1906, St Petersburg**

“Bet you can see all the way to Finland from up there, Dima!”

Dmitry squinted across the Neva. He didn’t see no Finland. But across the murky waters, he could see the familiar city of domed rooftops, spires and dirty streets, fortresses and wagons filled with merchandise.

He was comfortably settled on his father’s shoulders, peering curiously at his surroundings with eyes full of awe. On his father's shoulders he felt invincible, undestroyable, free. Perhaps it was the added height. His father laughed, his hands clasping Dmitry's legs so he wouldn't fall. 

“You see that fortress across the river? And that tall spire? That's the Peter and Paul Cathedral, it's the oldest landmark in Russia.”

“Can we go there?” Dmitry leaned forward, trying to catch a better glimpse. 

It was the third time that week Dmitry’s father had taken him to see the sunset fall across St Petersburg but no matter how many times he was hoisted onto his father’s shoulders, he never got tired of the view. The setting sun washed beautiful shades of pink and orange across the nestled city and reflected in the thick Neva’s waters.

With a grunt, Dmitry was placed back on the ground.

“No, kid. It's only for the elect.”

“What does elect mean?”

There was a pause as his father itched the back of his neck absentmindedly before settling into a comfortable walking pace. Home was only a short distance away, they would make it before the setting sun winked out of the sky, replaced with bitter darkness.

“It means the rich. Those born into fortune. Those who don't have to work for some soup to eat each night.” He breathed in sharply, eyebrows furrowing. 

Dmitry’s father always became unsettled and agitated on the topic of the rich and privileged. He was a passionate anarchist, as he classified himself, which meant he demanded “the total liberation of the human personality from the fetters of organized society”. Dmitry had heard his father mention and classify his political beliefs so often, it was carved into his mind. But he was absolutely forbidden to mention it, not even to his friends from the street who were as poor as he was. When questioning why, his father had explained how every word spoken aloud could be overheard by unwanted ears. Being a factory worker, conditions were extremely harsh. The men worked on average an eleven hour day which provided Dmitry with a large amount of time to explore the streets of St Petersburg, making friends and scavenging. On one shift, his father’s coworker had spoken with Dmitry's father about how tired he was, how _badly_ he wanted change, an escape from his endlessly exhausting life. The conversation had rapidly been averted but it had been much too late. The man never returned to work. “It was the secret police,” Dmitry's father had explained. “They come in the night. A man just disappears. What we speak about at home must stay there, not a word can leave. No one can know about the things I say. You understand, Dima?”

Dmitry had nodded, of course. He was like a lost puppy around his father, admiring the man that always said “we make ourselves better than our circumstances”. If his father told him to hurl himself into a wall, he'd take a running start. His mother had died of illness when he was still learning how to speak, therefore he was much more emotionally attached to his remaining father than he ever was with his mother. In fact, even when his mother was still alive, Dmitry’s first word had been “papa”.

“So, like them?” Dmitry halted in front of a souvenir shop, gazing through the frosted window.

Inside were official photographs and postcards of the Romanov family available for sale. The black and white photos displayed their grainy faces, frozen within the instant of time that the picture had been taken. The Tsar and Tsarina stood like marble statues, their chins slightly raised. The four daughters stood, gowned in beautiful dresses. There was Olga, Tatiana, Maria and Anastasia. The tiny figure of Alexei, the heir of Russia, was seated on the carpeted floor.

“Yes, like them,” Dmitry's father came up behind him and settled a rough, blistered hand on his shoulder. “The past Tsars and their families are all buried in the cathedral and one day they will be too.”

Dmitry frowned, his eyebrows furrowing. “That's gross.”

His father chuckled, giving his son a nudge. “Let's move on, we need to make it home in time to make dinner.”

Dmitry took one final glance at the royal family and the girls’ young, mischievous faces. He couldn't imagine any of them one day dying, they seemed much too vibrant and alive, even captured in a photograph. 

He was unfortunately very wrong.

* * *

**1927**

The streets of St Petersburg were alive with awakening peasants, factory workers, dirt-stained merchants. Dusty figures weaved this way and that, calling out prices, trying to attract attention to their meager stands.

Dmitry whistled to himself as he watched the commotion, tugging his satchel closer to his body. The streets of St Petersburg had been his only home and he knew every crevice and alleyway like the back of his hand.

Although St Petersburg had always been Dmitry’s home, there was no point in trying to pretend it was perfect. On the contrary, actually. The new government had changed the name to Leningrad and claimed their country was a better, new and improved Russia but the truth was that not a thing had changed. Spies lurked in the shadows, stomachs grumbled and cramped, babies died before they could say their first word. The skies were always gray, the colour had faded from every red brick wall, it was a city of rumours and hushed whispers now, and nothing less.

Dmitry leaned against the wall of a crumbling home, shooting a glance at a herd of several women who were whispering animatedly amongst themselves. It was difficult to overhear every word but he was able to fill in the cracks of their conversation with his basic knowledge.

“Have you heard?”

“Although the Tsar did not survive, one daughter may be still alive.”

“The long lost princess Anastasia—”

“But, how?”

“They say the old grandmama will pay a royal sum—”

The local deputy commissioner known by the name of Gleb Vaganov walked past and immediately the whispers were cut off and the women vanished. It was like a wave followed the stern man everywhere he went, washing away anyone that contradicted his own intense beliefs. Dmitry, following the example of the scattered women, strode off in another direction.

It had been several years now since the Romanov’s death and it was still the only topic in every Russian’s head. Their ghastly murder was unforgettable and their legacy would live on in every whispered rumour and promise of a new age.

Dmitry shook his head to himself. The old woman must be nearly crazy to believe that her little duchess Anastasia could be alive. 

He frowned to himself, sitting on an empty barrel and staring at the lines in his hands and his dirty fingernails. What if . . . she was crazy enough? What if Dmitry could find the perfect girl, and ultimately convince the Dowager Empress that her granddaughter had survived after all? A slow, twisted grin appeared on his lips. A perfectly clear plan was forming in his mind and he lifted his head, searching the restless crowds for a sign of his bearded royalist friend, Vlad. 

Vlad was a man with his wits about him. He had been a count before the fall of the Romanovs and had more experience than anyone with the royal family. With Vlad’s knowledge and Dmitry’s ways, he was sure they could pull it off.

“A new Wanted poster! This time, we’re _both_ on it. I should have gotten out of Russia while I still could!” Vlad surged unexpectedly around the corner, holding up with distaste a faded sheet. In dark ink were their faces, drawn by an artist with definite skill. Every feature of theirs seemed identical to the original.

Dmitry squared his shoulders confidently. “I have a plan, Vlad.”

“Another one of your illegal schemes? Well, count me out.”

“We’re going to Paris!”

“Paris . . .I like Paris. Count me in!”

With a broad grin stretching across his face, Dmitry grabbed his friend’s shoulders and steered him towards a seat. He had a bit of explaining to do.

“It’s the princess Anastasia who will help us fly. You’ve heard the rumours, I’m sure. It’s simple! We’ll find the girl to play the part and teach her what to say. Dress her up and take her to Paris! You and I friend, we’ll go down in history.”

Vlad stared off into the distance for a contemplative moment before a grin of his own met his lips and his gaze shifted to Dmitry’s. “Well, imagine the reward her dear old grandmama would pay . . .”

“Who else could pull it off but you and me?” Cocky as ever, Dmitry stretched his hand out for Vlad to take. 

From out of the corner of his eye, Dmitry spotted the long, dark grey coat of Gleb Vaganov. He gripped Vlad’s forearm and they bolted for it. Avoiding the man at all costs was their best route of action. His solemn features spelled out what they never dared to speak aloud — if he overheard their plot, they’d be dead. Dead as a starved street rat. 

Skidding around the corner, the busiest area of the marketplace unfolded before them. Dmitry gazed across the sea of merchants, his ears ringing with the sound of shouting voices.

“A ruble for this painting; it’s Romanov, I swear.”

“Count Yusopov's pajamas! Comrade, buy the pair!”

“I found this in the palace, initialed with an A. It could be Anastasia's; now what will someone pay?”

Dmitry peered this way and that as he walked through the market, hoping for something to catch his eye. “We need something of hers to show the old lady.” 

“There’s more to being Anastasia than wearing a tiara, Dmitry,” Vlad responded with a roll of his eyes. But Dmitry hadn’t heard a thing, his attention completely distracted. His gaze had fastened upon a small, elegant box held within a man’s grimy hands. The exterior was adorned with gold and midnight blue, white pearls, and tiny laced flowers.

“How much is that music box?” Dmitry asked casually. 

Eyes growing large, the man wailed in beggar-like fashion. “Ah, the music box, it’s genuine Romanov, I could never part with it!”

Smirking, Dmitry fished out two objects from within his satchel. “Two cans of beans, comrade?”

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation as the man desperately responded with a solid “done.” The transaction was complete in the blink of an eye; Dmitry tossed the beans to the man and the petite music box was tossed to him in return.

“Do you believe in fairytales, Vlad?”

“When I was a child I did.”

There was a newfound confidence in Dmitry’s voice, a new strength in his step. With his chin lifted and the hint of a smile on his lips, he turned to his friend. “We’re going to create a fairytale the whole world will believe! It’s unlikely, but not inconceivable that the princess Anastsasia has been found at last. If we’re careful and make it believable . . .”

“And if the girl is gullible and willing to be taught. . .”

“Someone who will never have a clue,” Dmitry crowed. He could already picture it. A girl with pale, scared features who followed along with whatever they asked. Meek, compliant, naive. . . oh, yes, this could work.

“We’re making grandma happy and avoiding being caught.”

“Who else can pull it off but you and me?”

“We’ll be rich!”

“We’ll be out!”

“And St. Petersburg will have some more to talk about.”

Beaming like young schoolchildren, the duo slapped hands and resumed their walk throughout the marketplace.

* * *

**1906**

No matter how many times Dmitry twisted or turned, his stiff cot didn’t get any more comfortable or warm. Russian nights were long and bitter but this evening in particular held a certain malice he couldn’t name. Typically, he’d fall asleep the instant he heaved his little, tired body onto his cot but tonight his eyelids seemed destined to remain permanently open. Groaning to himself, he shifted onto his side.

There was an unmistakable sound from the room next door; the kitchen where his father slept. Dismissing it as an excuse his brain had come up with to become even more restless, Dmitry forced his eyelids shut. How long would it take until sleep overcame him? The hunger in his stomach was more pronounced than usual and for a moment he allowed his thoughts to drift towards warm bread and a hot cup of tea, something he’d only had the luxury of enjoying once in his life.

There it was again. Another unmistakable sound, a whispered word and the scrape of a kitchen chair against the floor. Frowning, Dmitry slowly lifted himself to his feet, warily peering towards the dark doorway. His father wouldn’t be happy to know he was still awake, maybe it would be better if he just stayed here. 

Despite his fears, there was a strong pulsing in his stomach, the desire to slip through that doorway and see what his father was up to. There was a thick evilness in the air and he simply wanted to be wrapped in his father’s solid arms, to feel safe and warm.

Dmitry crept across the cold floor and peered into the kitchen. A candle was set on the kitchen table, enough light to illuminate how empty the room had suddenly become. With one sweeping glance, Dmitry’s worst fears were instantly confirmed. 

There was nothing remaining but his father’s satchel laid across the kitchen bench and his cap hanging by the doorway. The door leading onto the street was wide open and a cold draft entered the room in a gush. Within Dmitry’s head, he could hear his father’s worn, deep voice, reminding him to never mention in public his political beliefs. ‘A man just disappears,’ he had said.

Fighting the tears that swam in his eyes, Dmitry raced towards the doorway. He took a couple steps, barefoot, onto the cobbled street but there was nobody there to meet him except his racing heart and blurred vision. 

His father was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first chapter took me almost a month to write bc i had to do research / plan some things out but this was just plain fun to write n only took a couple hours so yay! i hope it's not too bad

With the flair and confidence of a toad, the young woman shrilled, “I am the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov!”

Dmitry frowned, exasperated. Could her performance even be considered acting? “Try it this time without the gum in your mouth?” He suggested.

“It’s not gum, it’s tobacco.” The woman grumbled in reply, twirling around and stalking away to spit out her tobacco.

Dmitry and Vlad had done their best to spread their plan as widespread as they could without attracting too much unwanted attention. It had been difficult but they’d organized all of the potential women who fit the age and appearance requirements to meet at Count Yusupov's abandoned palace. A crowd of women had arrived but to Dmitry and Vlad’s dismay, the peasant women were terrible actresses. None of them seemed fit to convince the Dowager Empress they were the long lost Duchess. 

“Are there any more after these three?” Dmitry twisted in his chair to face Vlad, heaving a sigh. This had seemed like such an incredible idea in his head but their candidates were replacing his hopeful energy into a dull headache.

“Who were you expecting? Sarah Bernhardt?” 

The tobacco woman returned and immediately jumped back into her audition, raising her arms dramatically as she proclaimed, “it’s me, grandmama! Your precious Anastasia. They shot me but I lived and I’ve come all the way to Paris to tell you,” she pranced over to Dmitry, sinking to the floor in front of him and placing her hands on his knees, “. . . I’m alive.” She pronounced the last word almost despairingly as if it was only her unfortune that she was still alive.

Dmitry’s head dropped and he lifted a hand to his aching head, fighting the urge to send her away that very instant. 

“I’m not really an actress,” she explained dejectedly. 

From behind Dmitry, Vlad exclaimed with sarcasm and feigned surprise, “no. . .”

Dmitry lifted himself to his feet and steered the woman by the shoulders to the doorway. “Thank you, ladies. We’ll let you know.”

One of the women who had already auditioned stamped her way over to Dmitry, arms crossed against her chest. “What you’re doing is against the law!”

“For this, we lost our best hours on the street,” another woman snapped.

“If you weren’t so _handsome_ Dmitry, I’d report you.” One woman said, having approached him. He swore she even batted her eyelashes.

Having lost his last straw, Dmitry shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Out!” He chased them out, making sure the door closed with a thud after their long skirts had disappeared from view. 

“Well,” Vlad said, heaving himself into Dmitry’s abandoned chair. “You tried, my friend. Anastasia’s don’t grow on trees.”

“I’m not giving up.” Dmitry responded, not daring to give up hope yet. He finally had a plan to escape the rut he was living in and a couple pathetic auditions weren’t going to stop him from accomplishing it. It was his father’s stubbornness in him. “I’ll go to Siberia to find an Anastasia.” He squatted by his satchel, snatching the tiny music box from within and taking another look at it.

“Have you ever been to Siberia . . . ?”

“I haven’t been anywhere but here.” Dmitry tossed the music box from hand to hand, peering at it. It was so carefully and intricately designed, he almost questioned if it actually had belonged to the Grand Duchess at some point.

“Agh, the day I took up with you.”

“It was me or a Bolshevik firing squad,” Dmitry reminded his friend dryly. 

For a moment, there was a softer and more genuine undertone in Vlad’s voice when he responded. “You saved my life.”

“A rash act of kindness,” Dmitry said with a loose, casual shrug of his shoulders.

Vlad laughed loudly in response.

“Completely out of character,” he added.

Vlad’s laughter intensified. Dmitry tuned out his companion’s amusement, and draped himself across a musty couch. He lifted the music box closer to his face, turning it in his hands. There was a thin line snaking across its midsection which meant it opened but he couldn’t find a way to open it without damaging it. It held a mysterious quality to it and his curiosity was overbearing to focus on much else.

“Stop fiddling with that before you break it.”

“I can’t get it open,” Dmitry huffed in frustration.

“It’s a _fake_ ,” Vlad cried with a roll of his eyes.

Not bothering to contain his annoyance, Dmitry shot a glance towards the bearded, hunched man. “How would you know?”

“Nobody spots a fake like Count Vladimir Popov . . . the biggest fake of them all.”

Their conversation and Dmitry’s deep trance with the music box was cut short as the sound of knuckles rapping against the door rang out through the dim, spacious room. Snapping to attention, Dmitry stumbled off of the couch. “I knew it! Those women ratted on us.”

“At least they’ll feed us in jail!”

The two scrambled to find cover in the shadows. Dmitry, snatching the unoccupied chair raised it over his head, prepared to chuck it at the police as they entered. He was willing to fight his way out of this one; he’d done it before.

A young woman entered the room, a thick coat clinging to her thin frame. Part of her hair was twisted into a braid at the top of her head while the rest fell in dark waves across her back. There were shadows thrown across her features and it was difficult to make out much but he spotted a sharp nose and a weary face. They were the features of a girl, rather than Russian police. A breath of relief escaped Dmitry’s lips.  
Vlad stepped out of the shadows and she yelped with surprise. She was skitterish, scared of any movement, almost more than the average peasant woman. “I’m looking for someone called Dmitry,” she called out in a trembling, but determined voice. 

“So are the police,” Vlad breathed with relief. He pointed towards Dmitry, who was partly hidden in the shadows. “That’s Dmitry. . . with a chair over his head.”

Dmitry awkwardly relaxed, lowering the chair back to the ground.

“I’m Dmitry. What do you want?”

The woman took a couple steps forward, her voice laced with a desperate tone. “I need exit papers and I was told you’re the only one who can help me.”

“Exit papers are expensive,” he responded with a glance-over of her current shabby condition. There was a slim chance she would have enough to pay for it and he wasn’t willing to help someone who couldn’t give him something back in return.

“I saved a little money.”

“The right papers cost a _lot_ ,” he clarified.

“I’m a hard worker, you’ll get good money.” She’d knelt herself in front of where Dmitry sat on his chair, elbows on knees. She clasped her hands together, her eyes large. There was something very striking about her eyes, he noticed. Even in the dim lighting, he could see their clear blue colour.

“What do you _do_?”

“I’m a streetsweeper.”

In an instant, any prospect of helping the woman vanished. He let loose a laugh, looking towards Vlad. “A street sweeper!” He boomed. Now, her visible appearance made sense. Anyone who stooped so low as to sweep the streets didn’t have much to live for. He leaned back in his chair, draping an arm across the back of his chair, waiting for her to continue.

She pushed herself to her feet, eyes blazing. Her words escaped in a rush, as if tripping off the tip of her tongue in desperation. “In Odessa I washed dishes. And before that, I worked in the hospital in Perm.” 

“That’s a long way from here,” he said dismissively. Anything she said now didn’t matter to him; he was above folk like her.

“I know. I walked it.”

Dmitry faltered. He clenched his jaw, looking towards the girl with a susceptible raise of his eyebrow. “You _walked_ here? All the way from Perm?”

“I had no choice.”

Dmitry slowly organized himself into a more collected position, once more leaning with his elbows on his knees. He glanced towards Vlad who was gazing at the woman with the same fascination and interest that Dmitry was fighting to hide. “Who are you running from?” He asked, his gaze returning to hers. He had to admit, however desperate and poor she was, she had a mighty confident spirit. Her chin was raised, her cheeks flushed, her shoulders set and her gaze as arresting and striking as before.

“I’m running _to_ somebody. I don’t know who they are but they’re waiting for me. In Paris.”

Her last remark was all he needed to confirm that she was nothing worth his time. She had too many dreams kept within her chest for someone who swept streets as a living. “You don’t need papers. There’s a canal out there,” he stretched out his arm to gesture vaguely to his left. “Jump in and start swimming. You’ll be in Paris before you know it!” He guffawed with laughter, slouching back into his relaxed position with an added, “she has no money _and_ she’s crazy!” towards Vlad.

“I’m _not_ crazy,” she persisted. “Why are you so unkind?”

“You’re wasting our time!” Dmitry snapped with a frown but he was saved the opportunity of adding anything else as Vlad butted in. “We were hoping you’d be someone else.”

“Who?” She stalked confidently towards him.

“Someone who may not even exist.” Vlad gave him a hard look.

Dmitry flinched. Vlad was revealing too much. They didn’t know this woman whatsoever and there was a good chance if the past few women hadn’t already reported them, this one would.

A distant look appeared in her eyes as she angled away from them, facing the empty audience. Dusty furniture was scattered here and there but its only purpose now was to shelter mice and cobwebs. “I’ve been in this room before. There was a play. Everyone was beautifully dressed.” Her voice was fainter as if she was lost in her thoughts. Or memories. Or both.

“This was the private theatre in Count Yusupov’s palace,” Vlad remarked but she barely appeared to hear. 

“People were polite and kind.” She held her bag close to her body, her gaze far-off as if her mind wasn’t entirely there. Dmitry noted how pale her skin was, how deep the shadows under her eyes were. Who knew when the last time she had eaten was. 

“She’s going to faint on us,” he exclaimed. They didn’t need another problem on their hands and an unconscious women was more than he wanted to handle at the moment. His headache was making a swift reappearance. 

Vlad darted towards the woman, dragging a chair along with him. “When did you eat last?” He questioned as he gently guided her towards it. 

“Afterwards we danced, there was champagne,” she continued to ramble on. 

“Where are your manners, Dmitry? Get her some water. And a piece of that cheese, too.”

“This isn’t a soup kitchen, Vlad.” Dmitry protested.

Vlad took a challenging step forward and Dmitry took his cue, turning and stalking towards the kitchen, shoving his hands into his pockets. The last words he heard before entering the swinging kitchen doors were, “you seem to be a gentleman, even if your friend is not.” Ha! Vlad - a gentleman. He snatched an empty glass cup, rubbing away the dust with his shirt sleeve and pumped water into it, splashing it across his fingers. He bit his lip bitterly, tossing around ugly thoughts in his head. Why were they spending time talking to a woman who clearly wasn’t right in the mind? With every second they wasted, he could be trying to open the music box or planning a trip to Siberia. Who knew where the next months would lead him but he sure as hell hoped out of Russia.

He re-entered the theatre, offering the glass to the woman.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Vlad, close to Dmitry in a low voice so she could not hear, uttered, “don’t be too quick about this one.”

Dmitry shot a glance at the woman who was gulping down the water as if it was her sole occupation in life. In her haste, a couple drops fell onto the front of her coat. Dmitry’s eyebrows furrowed and he watched Vlad’s retreating figure. “. . . Her?” He questioned incredulously. “Have you gone crazy too?”

Vlad ignored Dmitry, choosing to introduce himself to the woman instead. “I’m Vlad. What’s your name, dear?”

She paused, an intensity lingering in the air. “I don’t know.”

Vlad breathed in sharply. “You don’t know?”

“They gave me a name at the hospital. Anya. They told me I had amnesia. There was nothing they could do about it.”

Dmitry strode towards his chair, turning it around and taking a seat, straddling it. She seemed content to display her entire life story to them, something Dmitry was very unfamiliar with. Being open about his life and feelings were very difficult and he was admittedly surprised by the lack of boundaries she had. It was admirable. 

He listened as she explained that she’d been found on the side of the road at around seventeen. She had no memory, no name, nothing to keep her company but the bitter cold and wind. She’d travelled the backroads, slept, took what she needed and worked when she could. Despite everything that had happened, she’d kept her courage. Her memory was a blank slate with the exception of a soft voice telling her that they’d meet her in Paris. When life was bleak and the nights were long, the reminder that there was someone who knew her and was waiting for her was the only thing that kept her going.

“You don’t know what it’s like not to know who you are.” She spoke to Dmitry exclusively, glaring at him as if he was the reason behind all of her suffering. “I’ve seen flashes of fire, heard the echoes of screams, but I still have this hope in the truth of my dreams.”

Dmitry swallowed, examining her strong features. Throughout her explanation, one thing had made itself clear: she was yearning to escape Russia, just as he was. The Dowager Empress lived in Paris and that was where she wanted to go. She was brave and resilient and although he was not excited about the prospect, she was a better Anastasia than any of their previous auditions. He lifted a hand to stroke his chin as he took several steps towards her. Vlad did the same.

“There’s definitely a resemblance, Dmitry.”

“Have you heard the rumours of the princess Anastasia?” Dmitry tilted his head to one side.

“Everyone has. But that’s all they are, isn’t it?”

“Maybe we can help you after all, Anya. It just so happens, we’re going to Paris ourselves.” He guided her towards Vlad who swept her aside. 

After the whirlwind of organizing auditions and getting his hopes up just for them to come crashing down on him again, he was finally beginning to see a tangible plan. A grin slowly stretched across his features as the image, in all its glory appeared. Maybe this could work . . .


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was lowkey a pain to write bc soo much happens in this scene/song and i feel like i'm not giving enough justice to the character of dmitry but aaahh i'm excited for the next bit

They didn’t waste a second. Vlad, who had pulled Anya aside, talked in a low, hurried voice as he explained that the Dowager Empress believed the rumours about her granddaughter’s survival. Anya’s complicated past and timeline matched up perfectly with that of the long lost Romanov duchess. With Vlad and Dmitry’s flawless understanding of the royal family, they would be capable of teaching her all that she needed to know - all that she had possibly forgotten. Traveling to Paris had its difficulties but Vlad had connections and if their luck prevailed, they would meet the Empress and she would believe Anya to be her beloved Anastasia. Things, if carefully planned, could run as smoothly as silk.

Dmitry listened in on their conversation as he thumbed through the pages of an old Romanov photo book he’d discovered several years before. Every now and then he would glance from the young Anastasia’s photographed features to those of Anya’s. They shared the same eyes but otherwise, there were no strikingly identical features that would convince the Dowager Empress. Dmitry heaved a sigh, closing the book with a thud. 

Anya visibly jumped at the sound, her attention ripped away from her conversation with Vlad. 

“God, can you relax,” Dmitry rolled his eyes. She needed to get a grip; nobody here was going to hurt her. She channeled a glare in his direction before averting her gaze back to Vlad.

It was a good thing he wasn’t working alone, Dmitry thought to himself as he roamed his hands through his hair, otherwise _he_ would be the one talking with Anya and he wasn’t sure if the two of them could handle that. They hadn’t started off on the right foot and Dmitry wasn’t willing to occupy his time with trying to mend what had already passed. Besides, he was already second guessing choosing Anya as their Anastasia. She might be confused and willing to be taught, but she had already demonstrated an admirable amount of confidence and stubborn persistence. He had been hoping for someone who went along with whatever he said, no questions asked. Vlad, on the other hand, was much more enthusiastic about her, evidently displayed as he grinned and touched her shoulder.

The duo parted, Vlad approaching an abandoned dusty chalkboard and Anya striding towards Dmitry.

“Are you ready to become the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova?” He questioned with a quirk of his eyebrow.

She lifted her chin, staring challengingly into his eyes. “I’m ready to find out who I am. But I’m not going to lie to do it.” She attempted to push past him but Dmitry caught her by the shoulders, steering her alongside him towards Vlad.

“It won’t be a lie. We’re going to help you remember the truth.”

“I wish I had your confidence.” She admitted, twirling to face him.

Without faltering, despite the surprise at her display of uncertainty, Dmitry continued brazenly. “If the Dowager Empress recognizes you as her granddaughter, Vlad and I will get a small reward,” he pinched his fingers together, “for our efforts and we’ll all live happily ever after.”

“And if she calls me an imposter?”

“Then it will all be just an honest mistake.” Anya swallowed, looking unconvinced with his poor excuse of comforting. “By the way, it gets you to Paris and us out of Russia. Everybody wins.”

There was a pause, an electric moment of intensity, where nothing but their shallow breathing served as sound. Dmitry and Vlad stared like statues at her impassive features, searching for a clue that she was willing to commit to their plan. She was all they had now, they needed her for this to work. At last, she finally responded.

“How do you become. . . the person you’ve forgotten you ever were?”

Dmitry grabbed her one of the few beaten up chairs the room occupied. He placed it behind her and opened up the Romanov photo book to the first page. Black and white photographs captured the Romanov family at a time when their three daughters were in their infancy, their young faces and rosy cheeks glowing at the camera. 

“Take a deep breath,” Vlad began as they crouched on both sides of her, placing the book on her lap. “Close your eyes and imagine. Another time. Another world. You were born in a palace by the sea. You rode horseback when you were only three.”

“Horseback riding? Me?” She was smiling, a strange sight to see on the features of a woman who did not appear to smile often. The intensity that laced her features had dissolved into a much more natural and comfortable disposition. 

“You threw tantrums and terrorized the cook,” Vlad pointed to a photo of the cook. “Heh! How the palace shook.”

Dmitry snorted, shooting her a glance. “Charming child.”

The page was turned to reveal a photo of Tsar Nicholas II, his features unreadable and removed. “But you’d behave when your father gave that look.”

“Imagine how it was,” Dmitry stated, “your long forgotten past. We’ve lots and lots to teach you and the time is going fast.”

* * *

Days passed as they did their best to teach her about her past. The three of them used the abandoned palace as a home of sorts; they slept, ate and had their lessons in close proximity. The spacious building held many luxurious rooms to choose from but the trio chose to stick together. Most of their time was spent within the theatre where the majority of Anya’s lessons were held. In order to convince the Dowager Empress she was Anastasia, she needed to learn how to walk like a Romanov, how to talk like a Romanov, how to properly hold a teacup like a Romanov. The trickiest bit was teaching her her family tree as it would take more time than they possessed to teach her everything she needed to know.

Additionally, Anya was not exactly handling the pressure nor her lessons as well as Dmitry and Vlad had hoped. She could walk for days until her feet bled without faltering, push every physical boundary the world lunged at her but mentally, she was exhausted. After only an hour of drilling facts, she became frustrated, restless and practically impossible to work with calmly. It was on these such occasions that Dmitry found himself wrestling with the idea of abandoning the plan altogether but of course, he stuck through it with a grit of his teeth.

One of her largest outbursts arrived a week into their lessons. They were quizzing her on her family history and for once it seemed like she had a firm grasp on it.

“Who’s your great grandmother?” Vlad questioned, a book in his hands containing the Romanov family tree.

“Queen Victoria!”

“Great great grandmother?”

Her voice warbled for a moment as she searched within her brain for an answer. “Princess Victoria of Saxe-Coburg-Saalfeld!”

Dmitry, lounged casually in a chair, watched the two with the bare minimum of his attention.

“Your best friend is?”

Without hesitation, she replied proudly. “My little brother Alexey!”

“Wrong!” Dmitry chimed with annoyance. “Your best friend is-”

“I know who my best friend is!” Anya cried challengingly, taking a step towards him.

“What a temper,” he remarked snarkily.

“I don't like being contradicted!” 

“That makes two of us.” 

She launched her book at his chest and he jerked to his feet, fists clenching. Vlad purposefully made his way in between their death glares. “Continuing on!”

“I've had it!” Anya stood tall, quivering with anger and frustration. “I hate you both,” she looked pointedly at Dmitry as she spoke, “I'm sorry that we ever met. I'm hungry and I'm frightened and I'm only human; don't forget I can't remember anything.” The words exploded from her mouth in fury as if they'd been pushed aside for too long and she could no longer keep them quiet. 

Vlad smacked Dmitry with the thick book as if to say 'this is all your fault!’. Clenching his teeth in an effort to control himself and make things right again, Dmitry bent to one knee in front of Anya who had collapsed into a chair and gently offered her the book. Channeling all of her anger and exhaustion into shoving the book at him, she cried, “get out and leave me be!” She turned away from them, arms folded, still shaking. Dmitry took a step forward in the hopes of trying to mend the situation but Vlad stopped him in a dash. 

“Anya, darling look at me.” The older man spoke. He waited for her to slowly rotate towards him before continuing in his deep, soothing voice. “We're all frightened, well slightly, now and then. Shall we start again? Take a breath, count to ten.” He took her hands and guided her to her feet, maintaining steady eye contact. “You have courage and strength you barely know!” He whipped out a handkerchief from his overcoat pocket. “So blow that little nose and dry those pretty eyes. A princess like your majesty can do this if she tries!”

Without skipping a beat, the lesson resumed it's normal pace and Dmitry watched as events returned to normal. He wasn't sure how Vlad was so capable of that gentle quality Dmitry simply couldn't master. He became annoyed and frustrated far too quickly to deal with it all in a reasonable manner. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dmitry's attention remained piqued as Anya mastered the information she'd been taught. Apart from her outburst, she was doing very well, he had to admit. Along with every tick of the clock, Dmitry's hopes in his plan and in Anya heightened. 

She, too, was evidently feeling the same enthusiasm. She walked quickly across the stage, practicing the right posture. “Suddenly I'm feeling there's a chance,” she confessed, glancing at her companions.

“Not until you learn to dance!” Vlad exclaimed, taking ahold of Anya and pulling her towards Dmitry abruptly. They were pushed together so suddenly, Dmitry nearly tripped over his own feet in surprise. Vlad appeared bemused as he moved their hands into the right positions, moving Dmitry’s hand to her waist, her hand to his shoulder and their other two hands connected at the side. Panic surged in Dmitry’s chest at the prospect of dancing and he attempted to communicate through eye contact with Vlad what a seriously bad idea this was. He had never learned, never tried, and was fairly confident his long limbs would prove to be very ungraceful. Anya, on the other hand, stood tall and confident as if she’d danced her entire life.

Vlad counted them in and awkwardly, they commenced the few basic steps they knew. Dmitry bent his knees and pumped his legs as he attempted to stay in time with Vlad’s counting while mirroring Anya’s actions. They stepped from side to side in a jolting manner, separated as far apart from each other as they could possibly get while still touching.

So focused on keeping up with the timing, Dmitry didn’t pay close enough attention to his footing and mistakenly trampled Anya’s poor foot. She yelped angrily, twisting to look at Vlad. The man heaved a deep sigh, motioning for them to continue. Only moments after they had resumed their rough dancing, Anya deliberately stomped on his foot. 

“Hey!” He cried.

“Anya!” Vlad, facing Anya’s back, took ahold of them and guided them once more through the steps. This time, they seemed to be able to get it. Their movements became more natural and smooth, almost resembling graceful. 

Dmitry, peeling his eyes away from his feet to glance at Anya, noticed a mischievous look in her gaze. Understanding almost immediately as though through an unspoken agreement, his grip fastened on hers and they both charged, while dancing, towards Vlad. He jogged away, laughing as he went. 

The empty theatre had surely held many plays before; it was a perfect location, Dmitry discovered, as the two of them glided across the large stage. Their feet barely connected with the smooth flooring as they were so swiftly caught up in the motions of dancing. Surprising even himself, Dmitry grabbed Anya’s waist and whirled her into the air as she shrieked. All of his previous concerns had rapidly melted away, with a grin to take its place. Almost laughing, they swept across the floor in tune with the music playing within their heads. They slowed their pace to a near stop, gently rotating in circles, their chests rising and falling with each breath. Dmitry stared into the eversofamiliar blue eyes of hers, becoming hyper aware of every place his body subtly connected with hers. There was something about her he couldn’t quite understand . . .

Vlad pulled Anya away from Dmitry’s grasp, becoming her dancing partner instead. “We’ve only just begun.” Their fast paced foxtrot, or whatever the hell it was called, brought smiles to both of their faces as they whirled about the room like a blur.

Dmitry laughed as he watched them, unable to help himself. It was strange, no, it was nice, he corrected himself shortly, to see Anya so giddy and frankly, happy. A smile made her cross features become pleasant and almost pretty. He frowned, shaking his head to himself. No, she was rather plain, nothing too pretty about her, nothing at all . . .

Once the dancing had fizzled out, Vlad complimented Anya in his elegant French. Without skipping a beat, she responded with every amount of confidence in the same language. Dmitry had never learned anything but Russian and he watched as they prattled on in French, arms crossed. 

“What were you telling her?” Dmitry questioned once she’d gone to sit down.

“Oh, the aristocrats all spoke French, Dmitry. Russian was for common people like you.” 

Dmitry stood there, his brows furrowing. Whether he was aware of it or not, Vlad had undeniably insinuated that Dmitry was the lowest ranking person in the room. His pride flared and he looked away, trying to shoulder away his quickly rising emotions. Anya swept streets for a living, who cared if she spoke French or not? 

“You get to sleep on the sack of lentils tonight, Anya, you’ve earned it.” Vlad trilled, as he smiled at her, gently touching her cheek. “Bonne nuit, ma chère, tomorrow we begin again.”

“In Russian, this time.” Dmitry handed her her jacket and stalked out for a breath of fresh air. 

The stars were out. Slowly tipping his head back, he inhaled the sweet fragrances of the evening air and closed his eyes. The cold wrapped around his body and for a fraction of a second, he felt as alone as he had the night his father had disappeared. His body threatened to fold in on itself, crumple to the ground, but he squared his shoulders. He wasn’t that kid anymore; he was stronger. He’d taken care of himself since he was twelve years old, he didn’t need anybody. He knew things he hadn’t known then, he’d learned how to survive in this incorrigible country. 

Dmitry opened his eyes, exhaled, and turned to re-enter the palace. As long as he got out of Russia, he’d be fine.


	4. Chapter 4

Legs pumping, Dmitry raced through the crowded streets. His breath rattled in his chest and his lungs felt like they would unexpectedly give out on him at any moment but he continued on. From up ahead, Feliks laughed; a loud, psychopathic sound. He was the fastest of them all and he knew he could outrun the police without difficulty. The laughter spread like contagious wildfire, first Igor and then Viktor. Even Dmitry felt his chest heave with sudden, uncontrollable laughter. Nothing scared them anymore, they were invincible. Flying through the streets with laughter trailing behind them. They skidded around corners and flung themselves over fences until they were positive they had lost the police in the maze they knew as St Petersburg. _Their_ Petersburg.

Dmitry finally stopped, bending over as he inhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath. Svyatopolk had pulled out from underneath his coat the stolen bottles of liquor. He grinned at his friends, pumping his fist containing a bottle into the air. “We’ll be celebrating tonight, lads.” The other boys cheered and whooped loudly, their ruddy faces stretched into grins. 

There were five of them, ages ranging from fourteen to seventeen. Igor and Feliks were brothers but otherwise, the group wasn’t related whatsoever. They had grown up together on the streets and when Dmitry had lost his father, they had moved into his pathetic, tiny excuse of a house. What they did wasn’t always right but life had treated them like scum. They didn’t know the feeling of a mother’s hug or a goodnight kiss. They were living souvenirs of Russia’s poor economy and they had no choice but to turn to crime and cons to survive.

From out of his satchel, Dmitry pulled a loaf of bread he had managed to snag from a stall. He was the only one who refused to drink, choosing to spend his time stealing things that actually profited him. His father had told him only fools drank until they couldn’t think straight. He’d seen his friends experiences firsthand, the way their brains would become so muddled they would throw punches at each other, beat eachother up until they couldn’t any longer. When they awoke, the previous night would be forgotten, their bruised eyes and knuckles the only reminder that anything had occurred. The only reason they didn’t make fun of Dmitry for not drinking was because he was the reason they had a couple blankets and bread every now and then. If they were lucky, some cheese or cans of beans.

Feliks put a hand on Dmitry’s shoulder, shoving him gently. “Did you see that one officer’s face? His face was so red, I was sure it woulda popped off.”

Dmitry smiled, jostling him roughly in return. “No, I didn’t see, I was too busy trying to catch up to your ass.”

“Ah, well, the cons of being the slowest scum _that ever lived_.”  
Wrapping his elbow around Feliks neck in a chokehold, Dmitry gave him a stern kick in the back and they both went toppling to the ground. Immediately, they began tussling, laughing as they scrambled in the dirt.

“Will you two grow up?” Svyatopolk snapped. “We can’t count on going to Dmitry’s place tonight, they’ll find us. I want to find someplace to stay before it gets dark.”

Dmitry disengaged himself from Feliks, sighing softly as he pushed himself to his feet and offered a helping hand to his friend. He wanted to mention that Svyatopolk was pathetically immature while drunk so it wasn’t his place to tell them to ‘grow up’ but he knew he’d get a solid punch in the face if he did.

There was a comfort having friends who had his back and counted on him. This way, he knew if he disappeared, at least _somebody_ would notice. He wasn’t completely invisible in this massive sea of people. He mattered, even if only to four people. But still, his stomach churned at the thought of spending his entire life here, with them. There was nothing Russia had to offer him. He was only fifteen but he could grasp that living and dying with a pile of drunk boys who pretended they were men was no way he wanted to go. He wanted to die knowing he’d accomplished something, even if it wasn’t important, he wanted to fit in the fabric of this world and stand out. Russia offered none of that.

As the boys began walking towards the sunset, on the hunt for some dry and warm shelter to contain them and their alcohol for the night, Dmitry settled in step beside Feliks. “I don’t know how long I can stick around here,” he murmured. He didn’t want to admit it to anybody else but he was far more comfortable around Feliks than the others.

“What? You think you’re better than us?” 

Dmitry looked at his friend, searching for the right words. Feliks’ face was screwed up in frustrated thought as if he’d never realized Dmitry had dreams that didn’t fit into their little, boxed-in life.

“No. You know I don’t.” He’d never been good with words or emotions and he huffed out a breath, watching it form as mist in front of him. “I feel trapped here. I just want to feel free.”

“Damn it,” Feliks stopped in his tracks, glaring now. “If we’re not good enough company for you, leave. We’re not keeping you here imprisoned. For God’s sake, if you feel trapped, leave! We don’t care.” 

Dmitry frowned. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d hurt his friend by having dreams that lay elsewhere. “I’m not leaving,” he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, trying to communicate through the gesture and his eyes how sincerely he meant it. “I swear.”

“Whatever.”

They continued walking in stony silence. Later, once they’d found shelter and the boys were absorbing enough alcohol to give them a headache for a week, Dmitry lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He’d sworn he wouldn’t leave but he wasn’t so sure he could keep that promise. One day he would eventually leave and he knew they would never forgive him for that. But he would not let them stop him from escaping this hellhole of a life. Sure, they laughed while they stole, and sometimes it felt good to feel like a part of something, but Dmitry’s life had never felt so out of his control. There was always a little room to dream and escaping Russia was the only dream Dmitry gave his energy and time. One day, he promised himself, one day.

* * *

“And that, there is the Trinity Bridge. It’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I know what the Trinity Bridge is, Dmitry,” Anya scowled at him. “I live here, too. I want to know where Anastasia may have visited. Places that she definitely would have been familiar with. I’ll need to know were the Dowager Empress to ask me.”

Dmitry sucked his cheeks in with a roll of his eyes. She couldn’t speak to him for a second without being irritated, could she? “The Romanovs didn’t visit St Petersburg often. But, uh, maybe this way. . .” He guided her to the left. These streets he knew well, he had raced along them in his childhood, he could still hear the sound of his pounding footsteps. 

Rather than teaching Anya everything she needed to know within the confinement of the Yusupov palace, they were taking a venture into the real, harsh streets. A little field trip, you could say.

They walked in silence for some time, admiring the tall, old buildings and architecture that lined the cobbled streets. Dmitry was aiming to end up in the busier district with paved roads where the Romanovs were known to drive by when they visited. Glimpses out of windows would be their best shot at assuming what Anastasia had seen of Petersburg.

“Dmitry.” Anya broke the silence suddenly, her words were urgent but quiet, as though nobody could overhear what she was about to say. “While in the market, some officers arrested me. I was told by the deputy commissioner that they know about what we’re planning. We need to be careful, they know where we’re living. His name is Gleb.”

Admittedly, Dmitry only paid attention for a moment before his attention was diverted by the sounds of loud, crazed voices from up ahead. He frowned, altering his pace so they were walking slower; his long strides shortened into steps. 

“Life is good!”

“As long as there’s vodka.”

“Life is _wonderful_!”

“I’ll drink to that!”

“What’s that awful smell?”

As Dmitry and Anya rounded a corner, the voices’ occupants came into view. Scattered across a park bench, limbs splayed out in every direction, with dazed expressions covering their faces were Feliks, Igor, Svyatopolk and Viktor. Time had changed them - their once ruddy, youthful faces had grayed and weathered, they stunk of vodka and puke, and their words slurred together. They were drunk out of their minds. Unfortunately, there was no chance of escaping unseen. Their gazes landed on Dmitry and Anya and immediately he could spot the recognition on their faces. Damn. This wasn’t good.

“Look who’s here. The prince of Petersburg.” Svyatopolk’s voice was laced with smug mockery. They obviously hadn’t appreciated him abandoning them.

“Thought you were in Paris,” Feliks spoke bitterly.

“He missed his old partners in crime.”

“Looks like he got himself a new girlfriend instead,” Viktor laughed crudely. They were all glancing her up and down with shifty eyes and Dmitry’s jaw tightened. 

“She’s not my girlfriend.” 

“It’s Anastasia herself!” Igor stood atop the bench, stretching his arms wide. “I bet he’s got you bowing for him like a real little Tsarina,” he laughed.

Dmitry grabbed Anya’s hand. He hadn’t meant for this to happen, he’d hoped to leave them in his past. Involving Anya with them was the last thing he wanted to do. He strode past them, clenching his teeth.

“You going to Paris, ma chérie?” Viktor moved towards Anya but Dmitry shoved him aside.

“Have a drink with us, Dmitry.”

“Come on, Dmitry, I don’t like these people,” Anya grabbed his arm for a moment to get his attention before stalking away in the direction they had come. Feliks jumped in front of her with a self-satisfied smirk. “Too good for us, sweetheart?” He ran his hands down her arms and further as she shied away from him.

“If you don’t want her, Dmitry, I’ll take her,” Svyatopolk gave Dmitry a solid push out of the way, giving him enough space to yank Anya away from Feliks and pull her to his chest. “You want to dance, sweetheart?” 

Igor and Viktor were cornering Dmitry but he caught a glimpse of Anya’s fist swinging, connecting squarely with Svyatopolk’s face. With his resolve strengthened, he gave Viktor a push and attempted to run for Anya but Igor grabbed his arm, pulling him away. Anger, burning in his stomach, coursed through his body to his fist as he began swinging at their faces, dodging swings of their own. When Feliks had asked him so long ago if he thought he was better than them, he should have said yes. His situation was as terrible as theirs but at least he didn’t stoop so low as to drink stolen vodka until he threw up, and try to lift any women’s skirt who passed.

Feliks, appearing from behind him, grabbed Dmitry’s shoulders and barrelled him into the bench. Bent over, helpless and winded, his old best friend punched him in the stomach sucking the air out of his lungs. Before Feliks could get another shot, he yelped and stumbled away. Dmitry glanced up to see Anya, a thick stick raised over her head charging at them. Igor had collapsed on the ground and Viktor was struggling to his feet. The four of them finally acknowledged their defeat and they raced away, Anya charging after them with a fierce battle cry.

Dmitry sunk onto the bench, trying to catch his breath and recover from the shock. He was surprised at this new side of Anya, so completely fearless, even in the face of serious danger. He’d known those men since he had been a little child and they never, no, never ran away from a fight. Anya had scared them. And for men who considered themselves invincible, that was impressive indeed. 

“Next time I won’t go so easy!” Anya shouted as she stalked after their disappearing figures. Once they winked out of view behind a corner she spun back towards Dmitry.

“When did you learn that? You’re good.”

“Want to see what else I can do?” She charged at him but he grabbed her waist and spun her around in the air. When she landed, he took a step back, his hands raised.

“Come at me, I won’t hurt you,” she exclaimed breathlessly, obviously excited and hyped up with newfound energy.

“I believe you,” he reassured her. He gingerly reached out to take the large stick from her, unsure what she was capable of in this state. 

“Didn’t walk halfway across Russia without learning how to take care of myself,” she said, chin raised proudly as she handed over the stick. She sat down on the bench as Dmitry carefully returned it to its original place. “You’ve had it easy.”

Dmitry paused. “Not so easy.” He inhaled, filling his lungs with air. Somewhere off, he could smell warm bread. He hadn’t told anybody much about his past but after Anya had revealed everything she knew about herself to him, he owed her that much. “My father was an anarchist.” He could see his father in his mind so clearly. The salt and pepper hair, shallow scruff across his cheeks and chin, warm chestnut brown eyes. They didn’t take baths very often, his father hated communal bathhouses, but he never smelled. If anything, he smelled like wild grass but Dmitry could never understand why; tireless cold didn’t provide for much grass. “He died in a labour camp for his convictions. “My mother was already gone. I don’t really remember her.”

“Who raised you then?”

“No one. I raised myself.”

Dmitry sat on the top of the bench, dangling his legs and looking down at Anya. “I grew up on the sly in the gutters and the streets of Petersburg. I’ve bartered for a blanket, stolen for my bread, learned to take my chances and use my head. A Russian rat is clever, clever or he ends up dead.” He sliced his hand across his neck dramatically but Anya didn’t even flinch. “Boils down to there are some who survive, some who don’t. Some give in, some give up. Me? I won’t.” He smiled as he lifted himself to his feet and stretched out his arms to the side, gazing across the beautiful view of Russia. He outstretched his hand for her to join him, standing atop the bench. “Come on, Anya.”

She took his hand and he helped her up so they were standing side by side. The view before them was breathtaking. Across the glistening Neva was the nestled city of St Petersburg. The sunset cast shades of yellow and orange across the domed rooftops and spires; it was beautiful. It was home. “Standing here you can see from the spires to the piers of Petersburg. I’d be down by that quay,” he stretched out a hand, pointing it out, “selling stolen souvenirs of Petersburg. Funny when a city is all you know. Even when you hate it, something in you loves it so. That’s where I learned my stuff in some rough company, there’s the boy growing up who was me. Nothing here to hold me, no one that I owe. Funny how a city tells you when it's time to go.” He stiffened at the thought of leaving this all behind him. He’d been wanting to escape for so long and so passionately that he hadn’t dwelt on how badly he’d miss certain aspects. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “But tonight there's a sky and quite a view. . . welcome to my Petersburg.” When he glanced at Anya, he saw a small smile on her lips. Whatever the reason was behind it, he didn’t know. 

They hopped off of the bench in unison. Dmitry took a couple steps forward, gazing at the familiar view that he had grown up with. “My father used to take me here. He put me on his shoulders so I could have a better view.” And then, in a strong, brawny accent, he drawled with a grin, “‘bet you can see all the way to Finland from up there, Dima!’”

Anya laughed gently. “Dima?”

“That’s what he used to call me.” The broad grin on his features melted away. “There isn’t a day I don’t miss him.”

Anya took a small step towards him. “So neither of us has a family.”

“You don’t know that, yet.” He sauntered towards her, gesturing dramatically with a hand as he attempted to find his normal charm and confidence once again. “The answer is in Paris.”

They stared at each other for a moment, the silence between them heavy.

Dmitry finally broke it, grabbing the strap of his satchel as he approached her. “Now, tell me about her little dog.”

“His name was Toby.”

“Go on.”

She faltered. Her voice took on a new raspiness. “I loved him so much.”

“Don’t stop,” he urged her.

She looked away, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’m not as strong as you think I am.”

Dmitry hadn’t expected that out of her. He hated to admit it since she was the most frustrating person he knew but . . . she was also the strongest. He’d seen the way she’d thrown herself at his old friends without a second of hesitation or fear. She was bold and resilient and, well, she deserved to know that. He wanted to give back a spark of hope and he knew the perfect way to do so. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” She frowned skeptically. 

“Just do it,” he argued with a chuckle. “Put your hand out.” From within his satchel, he pulled out the music box that had attracted so much of his attention previously. He considered it pointless at this point, it was virtually impossible to open so it must be broken. But maybe it would mean something to Anya to have a relic that could have belonged to Anastasia. He placed it carefully in the palm of her hand. “Open.” 

Her expression transformed into a smile and Dmitry chuckled automatically in response. “You’ve worked hard, you earned it.”

“What is it?” She laughed.

“A music box.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s. . . broken. I can’t even open it.”

Anya’s fingers trailed across the detailed, elegant exterior. At the bottom of it, her fingers began winding a knob Dmitry hadn’t ever been able to wind before. She unclasped the lid and slowly lifted it. Beautiful, soft music began trickling from within. Inside, two dancing pieces slowly rotated. Dmitry’s eyes practically popped out of his head at the sight. He’d been trying to open it for weeks now. Why was it only suddenly working now?

“What - how did you do that?” He stumbled over his own words in his surprise and confusion.

Anya hadn’t seemed to hear, she was so entranced by the music box and the lilting music drifting from it. There was a far-off look in her eyes, the same look he had seen when she’d unlocked distant memories from Count Yusupov’s theatre.

“Anya?”

She began speaking softly in a low voice, so quiet he had to strain his ears so he was able to understand what she was saying. “Dancing bears, painted wings, things I almost remember. And a song someone sings, once upon a December. Someone holds me safe and warm, horses prance through a silver storm. Figures dancing gracefully across my memory. Things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember. And a song someone sings, once upon a December.”

Dmitry had listened as she spoke, unsure what to make of the words she was murmuring or what they meant. But one thing he knew for certain: whether Anya was the actual princess Anastasia or not, there was a part of him that was rapidly believing it himself.


End file.
